


In which kissing is off-limits

by fullyajar



Series: For Our Eyes Only [1]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, Gay Panic, Kink Meme, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-28
Updated: 2014-04-28
Packaged: 2018-01-21 04:40:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1537919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullyajar/pseuds/fullyajar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The first time it happens is neither unexpected nor unplanned – despite what the location would suggest and despite the fact that Santana will go to her grave swearing that it was, because clearly, you don’t plan to have your best friend finger you in the backseat of your car after the final McKinley High football game of the season. </i><br/> <br/>The beginning of a multi-part series in which various Glee club members catch glimpses of intimate moments between Brittany and Santana over the years, as they grow from friends with benefits to lovers and more. In this instalment, it's Puck and Artie stumble across them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Santana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Santana did _not_ plan this.

The first time it happens is neither unexpected nor unplanned – despite what the location would suggest and despite the fact that Santana will go to her grave swearing that it was, because clearly, you don’t plan to have your best friend finger you in the backseat of your car after the final McKinley High football game of the season. _Definitely not planned,_ Santana concludes resolutely as Brittany hovers over her prone form and slides her hands under her shirt.

Brittany bites her neck and she writhes under her touch appreciatively. Her breath is on her ear and it shoots a jolt of electric arousal through her body to hear how ragged her breathing is from just a few minutes of sexing each other up. They haven’t even kissed – unless the hickey Santana had sucked into existence on Brittany’s neck within seconds of straddling the blonde on the front seat counted. It had seemed unexpected in the moment – a smile spreads across her face at the memory of Brittany’s shocked but eager reaction – but things had been heating up to this moment for a while. Brittany slides a hand under her bra and squeezes a nipple – and yeah, Santana has wanted to do this for a while.

“Britt, come on,” Santana hisses urgently when Brittany presses wet kisses along her neck and lets her hands slide unhurriedly under her shirt. She shifts her weight and Brittany’s thigh knocks against her core. She hisses in pleasure and cants her hips into the weight again. Brittany takes the hint and starts setting a rhythm, squeezing Santana’s breast and grinding her thigh between her legs simultaneously. Santana lets out a breathy gasp and digs her fingers into Brittany upper arm. When she blonde pulls an earlobe between her teeth, she nearly loses it, and without a second thought, guides one of Brittany’s hands under the waistband of her Cheerios’ skirt.

“What are you doing?” Brittany asks urgently, her eyes wide and dilated.

Santana smirks and shrugs with feigned nonchalance. “I’m bored and horny, and you’re super hot. Did you paint on these jeans, or what?” she jokes, settling a hand on Brittany’s ass. Brittany smiles uncertainly in response, but doesn’t move her hand. Santana pushes lightly against the resistance, letting her know she’s not kidding about this.

“… Are you – are you sure you want this?” Brittany asks nervously.

“What I want – “ she growls, with a suggestive tilt of her hips, “is for you to stop talking and start _fucking_ me.” The harsh words fall of her lips in a flawless, predatory mix of lust and encouragement, with just a hint of her trademark venom. She seldom uses that on Brittany because she has other ways to make the blonde putty in her hands, but if the way Brittany’s eyebrows shoot up and she licks her lips subconsciously is any indication, Santana’s domination is a welcome surprise. Her smirk widens, she sits up slightly, and she slides the hand covering Brittany’s into her underwear. “If you won’t, I’ll – _oh_ – I’ll do it _myself_.”

It does the trick. With a hiss of arousal, Brittany presses her back into the seat with a harsh squeeze of her breast and a quick thrust of her hips. Brittany slides her hand down and Santana feels fingers inside her, and she and Brittany gasp simultaneously. And then the blonde begins to move, a steady, even rhythm that Santana _knows_ will get her off in record time. She pulls her lip between her teeth in pleasure and runs her fingernails over Brittany’s neck.

Santana briefly catches Brittany’s eyes, but closes them just as quickly when she sees how the blonde’s eyes are still wide in wonder, drinking in Santana’s face, as though she can’t believe they’re actually doing this. This whole thing isn’t as unexpected to Santana as it must be for Brittany, but, still – _just go with it,_ Santana thinks with a hint of annoyance, pushing the image of Brittany’s hopeful, awed smile away, and focusing instead on the rhythm her friend is setting – until suddenly Brittany’s lips are on hers and Santana’s heart shoots into her throat, where it hammers away loudly, uncomfortably, unbidden. She freezes, her lips taunt and her eyes wide. And she’s not sure why – but it’s too much. Brittany’s hand is on her breast, and her body strains into the touch automatically. There’s still delicious warmth between her legs where Brittany’s thigh rests, and she aches for even more closeness.  Brittany’s fingers are _inside_ her, for fuck’s sake, and her body _wants_ this. But Brittany kissing her? It’s not her body that reacts… it’s her heart. And it’s _too much._

“No,” she whimpers, and Brittany freezes instantly.

“What? _What_?” Brittany asks urgently, and there’s fear in her voice. Santana opens her mouth to respond, but she closes it when she realizes she doesn’t know what she wants to do – snap or soothe, push away or pull closer, turn away or… kiss back.

_No._

So, not kiss back then. She smothers an eye roll at herself, because her heart is still beating in her throat and Brittany looks like she’s about ready to bolt, and she wonders how they both suddenly became so frightened of each other.

“Lopez!”

They both about jump out of their skin at the pounding on the driver’s side window. Brittany jerks away instantly, her hand leaving Santana’s breast and her fingers sliding out of her panties. Santana shudders when she slides past her clit, and she realizes how aroused she still is, but she could sob with relief at the chance to compose herself and avoid… _whatever_ this was turning into.

She rezips her top, tightens her ponytail, and squares her shoulders. A quick look at Brittany confirms the blonde is also composed – although her shoulders are slumped and when she catches Santana’s eye, she looks away and swallows thickly. Santana’s instincts tell her to reach out, but when she starts to, her hand is shaking, and she stops.

“Lopez, is Pierce with you?” Sue’s voice is irritated, and it snaps Santana back to reality. Without a look back, she opens the car door and steps out.

“Yeah, we’re here.” She feels, more than sees, Brittany come up behind her. Sue shoots them both a seething glare.

“Perhaps you’d like to explain to me why the both of you are not on the field for the after-game picture? Has your teenage, reason-defying sex drive finally succumbed and pulled you down to the intelligence level of your bobble-headed banging buddy?”

Santana’s eyes widen in fear.

“We weren’t… I mean, we’re _not_ – “ she sputters desperately, as Brittany looks on unhappily.

Sue cuts her off with a look. “Save it, you hormonal blunderbuss. Don’t make me wait again.” She turns sharply and stalks to the field. Over her shoulder, she calls out, “And both of you, fix your lipstick.”

Santana quickly wipes her hand across her lips, her cheeks heating up. She ducks her head and follows Sue.

It’s only after a few steps that she realizes Brittany isn’t following. When she looks back, the blonde has two fingers lightly resting against her lips, and is gazing ahead with a faraway – and slightly lost – look in her eyes. She catches Santana’s eyes, and snaps out of it, bringing an uncertain smile on her face. She falls into step beside her, and when she nudges her pinky against Santana’s, she can’t say no. Still, neither can deny the silence still hangs heavy, and the last words they said to each other that weigh even heavier.


	2. Puck and Artie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which two stoners hear more than they’re supposed to.

“Dude, Wonder Woman is totally more badass than Black Widow!” Puck asserts adamantly as he rounds the corner and guides Artie’s wheelchair down the ramp to their hidden corner behind the dumpsters. It’s weird to think of it as ‘their’ hidden corner, but since helping to raise money to get a wheelchair-accessible bus for sectionals last week, they’ve kind of bonded.

Artie shakes his just as adamantly. “Nah-uh. You realize Black Widow has exactly the same powers as Batman, without all his money? And she still kicks ass.”

Pucks smirks, tilting his head and quirking and eyebrow in begrudging agreement as he pulls out and lights a joint. “Alright, you got me there. But what about the whole living on an island with only women?” He pulls deeply and holds, and passes Artie the joint.

The wheelchair-bound boy mimics him, and asks through a haze of smoke, his voice oddly distorted, “What are you on about?”

“You know – it’s basically the isle of Lesbos, isn’t it? And Wonder Woman hooking up with some other sexy, half-naked Amazonian chick – scores way more points than Black Widow will ever have.”

Artie guffaws loudly, coughing when the smoke clogs up his throat. “You are so predictable.”

Puck smirks.

“Santana!”

The shout catches them both off-guard, and Puck drops into a crouch behind the dumpster, while Artie waves his hands desperately to clear the cloud of smoke surrounding them. He coughs subtly, and Puck shushes him.

“Not now, Britt,” comes the stony reply. When Puck peeks around the side of the dumpster, he just catches Brittany’s hand shooting out and grabbing Santana’s upper arm, pulling the girl back from rounding the corner a few feet away.

“No! I need to talk to you,” the blonde begs. When Santana pulls her arm away with an angry jerk, she adds, almost sadly, “Please.”

Santana deflates visibly at her tone, and she stops running away. Puck frowns at the suddenly vulnerable look that passes quickly across her face as she looks at Brittany, but it’s gone so fast, he thinks he could have imagined it.

“I’m sorry.” There’s a desperation, an emotion in her voice that Puck has never heard from Brittany – ditsy, clueless Brittany. It surprises him.

“It’s okay,” Santana replies instantly – too fast. Silence falls, and stretches. Puck frowns, and shares a look with Artie, who’s listening intently as well. Artie shrugs, just as confused at the conversation as Puck is.

Santana clears her throat. “I should – .”

“I don’t know what I’m sorry for though,” Brittany says softly in an impassive voice. Santana tenses, and glances over her shoulder as though she’d rather be anywhere than here.  “ _You_ were the one that started it. I don’t know – I don’t get it.”

“I know, sweetie,” Santana replies softly. She reaches forward as though she wants to press a hand on Brittany’s guarded, crossed forearms, but she pulls back at the last second, glancing around warily.

When Santana says nothing more, Brittany pushes on. She takes a step forward and her hands reach out to Santana. Puck sees Santana flinch slightly at the movement, and Brittany’s face falls, so her hands hover where they are, no man’s land between the clearly – even to Puck – upset girls.

 “ _You_ came on to me. You basically guided my hand! And I… _God,_ San - it was so good and hot and – “

Pucks eyes bulge and his mouth drops open.

“ – and I wanted to keep going, so, _so_ much! And you seemed like you liked it, and then I kissed you and – “

“Brittany!” Santana all but screeches, stepping closer and putting a steadying hand on Brittany’s outstretched arms. Pucks wonders if it’s to steady Brittany or herself. Brittany grips the offered hands tightly and leans closer. Puck swallows hard, a jolt of arousal shooting through his body, because he’s sure they’re about to kiss, and that would be so unbelievably, undeniably hot and unexpected – _forget Wonder Woman!_ runs unbidden through his mind, and he chuckles at how easily his mind can be distracted. Brittany’s glancing at Santana’s lips and searching her face, while Santana looks – _scared,_ Puck’s brain offers instantly, but he pushes the thought away. _Do it. Do it._

“Not here.”

He can’t deny he’s disappointed. He glances quickly at Artie. Though the boy doesn’t seem to match his disappointment, the shock he feels at overhearing this strange encounter is clear across his face.

When Puck looks back, the girls have stepped apart and Santana is clearing her throat.

“Tonight. We’ll talk tonight.”

“Your place?” Brittany’s voice is suddenly hopeful, and Puck’s crotch tightens when he thinks about what could be taking place there tonight. He’s spent a few night between the sheets with Santana, and the thought of Santana and Brittany together, in the exact place where he and Santana did the nasty last week, is enough to make him drool.

“No,” Santana answers instantly, and it’s like she read his mind, because she looks around uneasily and swallows nervously. “Meet me under the bleachers after practice.”

“But – “

“Brittany –“ Santana’s interruption is snapped, and there’s the venom he recognizes from the firecracker Latina. Her voice softens slightly when she continues though. “ Just –  meet me then, okay? We can talk then, I promise.”

There’s a pause, and then Brittany nods uncertainly. Santana nods back, gives her what Puck supposes is supposed to be an encouraging smile, and then basically bolts from the parking lot. Brittany follows after.

The cogs in his brain must be rusted with arousal, because things aren’t moving so fast. Brittany and Santana hooked up. And not just kissed, but _hooked up_ -hooked up. Brittany loved it and ‘wanted to keep going’. _Holy shit._ His mouth, which he realizes is still hanging open in a slack-jawed gape, curls into a smirk. He turns to Artie slowly.

“Dude.”

Artie laughs, something hovering between a guffaw and an uncertain chuckle.

“Yeah.”

Silence falls as both boys process what they just overheard. And then Puck has a lightbulb moment of inspiration. He’s amazed at himself, truth be told.

“Dude – I’m gonna meet them!”

Artie frowns at Puck’s awed expression. “What?”

“Yeah! I’m going to meet them behind the bleachers after practice and add some much-needed meat to this lady-sandwich!” Puck’s smirk widens as his imagination wanders for a second. God, if he could high-five himself, he could.

“I don’t know, dude,” Artie admonishes uncertainly. “Did you hear Brittany? It sounded kind of serious.”

“Yeah, seriously hot!” Puck laughs. “Come on, dude, op top!” He raises his hand, but Artie just looks at him, partly incredulous and partly amused. His eyes are bloodshot, and Puck can see a smile tugging at his lips no matter how much he resists it – the weed is kicking in. “Don’t leave me hanging, man. I’m gonna have a Puckasauras threesome with two sides of Cheerios tonight.”

Artie laughs honestly at that, and high-fives the extended hand.

“Enjoy.”

For the rest of the day, it’s not just the weed that has Puck dancing through his classes with a smile on his face. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hours to write, seconds to comment! Let me know your favorite part/sentence/moment! Constructive criticism is also always welcome.


	3. Brittany

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Santana is like Math. 
> 
> Also fills [this prompt](http://glee-kink-meme.livejournal.com/570.html?thread=1850938#t1850938) at the Glee Kink Meme.

Brittany is nervous.

Like, really nervous.

Like – math finals nervous.

She always gets nervous for math finals. Which everyone – except Santana – finds very strange. She’s not nervous for any other subjects – has never been, most likely never will be. For all her other subjects, nobody has any expectations for her – especially herself. So she doesn’t get nervous, because she knows it won’t make a difference to. But, although only Santana knows it, for math, Brittany _definitely_ has expectations for herself, which can make the nerves unbearable sometimes. Because she’s good at math. Math isn’t words and math is always the same and math is more feeling than anything for her – she _gets_ math.

Which is why she’s nervous like math finals. Because she gets Santana too. She’s _good_ at Santana. And she has expectations for herself when it comes to her – her best and only friend.

And honestly, what they did last week have turned her expectations completely upside down.

Actually, it’s not so much actually what they did last week – because it was amazing and she definitely wants to do that again – as how Santana reacted. She’s Santana-smart, and she can usually tell when Santana is mad at her. And it looks like she is – but then it’s not exactly anger. It’s like Santana is scared of her.

And she can’t for the life of her figure out why.

She plucks at the grass in front of her crossed legs and sighs.

“Britt.”

Brittany shoots up without meaning to when she notices Santana standing silently at the corner of the bleachers. The shadows make her look more nervous than Brittany feels.

“Hi.”

Silence falls. Brittany twitches nervously while Santana looks away. Brittany can see she’s trying to hold up her armor, her defenses, to hide the way she’s clearly just as nervous. She _knows_ Santana, but she doesn’t know what … _all this_ means.

“Are you – “

“I need to – “

They freeze as they speak simultaneously, and it’s so comically awkward that Brittany has to laugh. She knows she’s not very good at picking up social cues, but this awkwardness is as clear as three-dimensional matrices to her.

The laugh breaks the tension, and Santana’s frame loses its rigidity. She takes a step forward and smiles when Brittany’s laugh turns into a silly giggle.

“You first,” Brittany says before Santana can open her mouth.

The smile wavers slightly, but the brunette takes a deep breath to steel herself and admit slowly, with rigid lips that show Brittany this isn’t easy for her to say, “I need to apologize.”

“For what?”

“For confusing you. For saying no.”

“You don’t need to apologize for saying no.”

Santana gives her an unexpected lopsided grin that has just a hint of bitterness. “You know my policy. Never say no.”

“Yeah, but that’s just with boys, silly, because if you say no their balls fall off,” Brittany reasons. She misses Santana’s amused quirked eyebrow. “I’m a girl – and your best friend.”

“Of course you are.”

Silence falls, but it’s not awkward. Brittany is smiling at Santana, because this feeling between them – this is familiar. This is like math again. Some of her nervousness dissapates and she sits down, motioning for Santana to do the same. The quietness of the moment continues, and Brittany wonders if Santana is mad at her. She burns to ask, but Santana is smiling at her lightly, almost shyly, and none of the awkwardness remains between them.

 _She’s not mad,_ Brittany concludes, and instead, asks a question that’s been burning on the tip of her tongue.

“Did you like it?” she says softly, and there’s a rough edge to her voice that she hadn’t intended. It’s like the time she ate woodchips at the circus because Santana had dared her to – her mouth is dry, her voice gravely, and there’s a nervous pitter-patter in her chest that she assumes is her heart.

She catches Santana’s eye, and there’s a glint in her eye that gives her her answer far before Santana swallows, licks her lips, and nods.

She twitches her fingers and smirks. She has this weird thing that her body remembers things better than her mind. Santana calls it muscle memory, or something. It’s why she’s so good at dancing, at cheerleading, at having sex… and right now, her fingers are remembering something so vivid she can feel the wetness between her legs pooling.

“Let’s do it again.”

Santana’s eyes widen, and she swallows thickly again. Brittany can see her pupils dilate and her legs tense as she presses them together.

“Are you serious?”

“As a castrated leprechaun.”

Santana laughs at that, and Brittany smiles at whatever she’s said to make her laugh. But her fingers are still twitching, and her mouth is dry, and before she knows it, she’s on her knees above Santana and has one hand on the surprised girl’s knee and the other behind her head. She’s licking her dry lips, she’s pulling Santana close, and _holy crap_ she’s turned on by just being this close and it’s so new and great that all she can think to do is pull Santana’s face up to hers and bring her lips –

“Britt, no,” Santana says. Brittany freezes again, uncertain. Honestly, she _does_ get Santana, but this, she doesn’t. She remembers the “Britt, come on,” when she’d slid her hands under her shirt last week, urging her to reach for second base. She remembers enticing thrusts onto her thigh when it had accidentally slipped between Santana’s legs. She remembers the teasing, Santana touching herself _– oh god,_ she remembers. She remembers the gasp of pleasure and the nails raked across her neck when her fingers had slipped inside her.

Maybe Santana just doesn’t know _how_ to say no, Brittany wonders. Because even now, the girl’s breath is ragged, her pupils are dilated, and the hand that’s resting on Brittany’s collarbone is pressing more with what seems to Brittany like a need to touch than a need to hold her kiss at bay – and she just knows Santana’s body is saying anything but no.

So why the sudden terror after she kissed her, now and last week?

Then it clicks.

_After she kissed her._

“It’s the kissing, isn’t it?” Brittany says with a sudden illuminating smile.

Santana frowns in confusion.

“You don’t like when I kiss you!”

The conclusion is clear to her, and though she may not understand why, she knows she’s right.

“I – “ Santana’s gazing up at her, all traces of a smile gone. Brittany waits. It’s like Santana is searching her face for something, so Brittany gives her what she feels: a smug smile at having figured out why Santana’s acting more like an imaginary number inside a square root function – basically, giving two simultaneous answers – than her usual, understandable self.

Santana searches for a second longer, then deflates and admits uncertainly, “I don’t.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Why?”

Santana waits a second, and Brittany is struck by how vulnerable she seems suddenly. After a moment, she shakes herself and she says firmly, “Because kissing… means more. And that’s not what this is. It’s just sex, okay? I’m not in love with you and I’m not gay and you’re not gay. Just… sex.”

There’s a pause again as Brittany studies Santana – the way she seems to be torn between holding her gaze to drive home what she’s saying, and wanting to look anywhere but at her. It’s the strangest thing. But… at least what she said makes total sense. Sex – sex is easy. Her muscle memory ensures that. And sex with Santana? _Awesome._

“Okay.”

Santana looks almost taken aback by the quick, easy reply.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“You’re not mad.”

“Are you?”

“No, of course not.”

Brittany grins.

“Then I’m not mad. I was only a little confused and worried you were mad at me. I thought I’d done something wrong. “

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong… “ Santana’s voice is tremulous – with arousal or something else, Brittany can’t decipher. With the green light and a clear rule to respect, she knows what she wants right now – no more words. Her fingers itch with memories, and she presses against the resistance Santana is half-heartedly still giving. “Just… no kisses, okay?”

“But we can continue where we were going?” she asks with a smirk and a suggestive twist of her hips onto Santana’s thigh. Santana’s eyes widen and she takes in a sharp gasp.

“Do you want to?”

Brittany’s smirk widens, and she takes a short moment. She’s not so stupid, she knows what she’s doing: she watches Santana as her pupils dilate and contract with the infinitesimally small movement of her hips on her thigh; she listens to she sharp intake of breath; she feels Santana’s hand slide suggestively across her ass. She knows what the brunette wants, and what _she_ wants.

With a knowing glint in her eye and an unintentional roughness in her voice, she repeats the harsh word that had basically shocked her into taking Santana on the spot last week:

“ _Fuck,_ yeah.”

It feels strange rolling off her tongue – she rarely curses – but when Santana groans in arousal and guides Brittany’s hands into her panties and her aching fingers in wet heat again, she knows she made the right call. Because this? Santana? She’s _seriously_ good at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hours to write, seconds to comment! Let me know your favorite part/sentence/moment! Constructive criticism is also always welcome.


	4. Puck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Santana’s filthy mouth doesn’t discriminate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear with me for this chapter! It’s from Puck’s POV, so it’s really heavy on (douchy) male gaze, which is not what I usually write. Hopefully it’ll still satisfy, plot-wise, but please remember – this is season 1, even before “Sex is not dating”, so Santana is still in denial and sleeping with both Puck and Brittany! Also, Puck is my go-to douche for any Brittana material, haha. So be prepared for doucheyness. 
> 
> Also, slight tw for blood and some violence at the end.

Puck has been waiting a while. He’s actually sitting _on_ the bleachers, and it’s half the remaining high from the weed this afternoon and half the knowledge of what’s going to go down real soon that has him congratulating himself the last half an hour on his genius hiding spot. He’s going to _literally_ swoop down on the girls. He grins excitedly.

He catches snatches of conversation, and he can see the girls through the open chain-link fence door he’s sitting next to at the top of the bleachers. They’ve never looked up, which he was counting on, and he has a perfect view of the two of them, about ten feet below.

They’ve been talking, mostly. Actually, only. He’d expected some action, like, right away. Some kissing. Maybe some second base. But nothing so far.

And then it happens. Brittany’s on her knees, hovering over Santana and pulling her close, and Puck nearly leaps off the bleachers in joy.

But… no – he wants to _really_ catch them. He wants to watch them. He wants to give himself – and them, of course – a moment to get properly turned on and ready and _invested_ before he jumps in. He wants to be with both of them – not just Santana. Oh, he’ll settle for just her (because ‘settle’ and ‘just’ are _not_ words that do Santana’s sexual skills justice). The knowledge of whatever is going between she and Brittany is enough to keep the fantasy real – but he _does_ want both of them.

So he waits.

And waits.

And… it’s taking a while for them to do anything.

… _why_ are they just hovering?

It looked for a moment like Brittany might kiss Santana, but a quick word from the brunette and a hand pressed against her collarbone and Brittany had frozen. Puck raises his eyebrows. He can’t remember the last time Santana said no. Actually, he thinks she never has – not to him at least.

 _But then again, who would say no to the Puckasaurus?_ he muses happily, sitting up a little straighter and looking down on the girls with glee.

There’s a beat, and then a moment that even Puck, from ten feet away, can see changes something. And then Brittany groans “Fuck,” and Puck realizes that he doesn’t need a lot of time to get turned on at all, because though they’re not kissing ( _Weird,_ a voice in the back of his head comments), the sight of Brittany’s hand sliding beneath Santana’s Cheerios skirt is enough to nearly send him tipping off the bleachers again. His jaw drops and his breathing speeds up at the sound of Santana’s pleased groan as she moves against Brittany’s hand. He can see her digging her nails into Brittany’s neck as the blonde whispers hotly in her ear. He can see the completely un-Brittany-like smirk twitching at the dancer’s lips – a knowing smirk, a teasing smirk, and Puck nearly busts an eardrum trying to hear what she’s whispering in Santana’s ear, because whatever it is, it’s good enough to have the brunette gasping in surprise and responding with filthy expletives.

He’s used to Santana’s filthy mouth in bed. She tells him what she wants, and she leaves no room for doubts. It’s one of the things he loves about bedding her – her complete domination and commands bring out the best in him. He tries his absolute hardest, because if he doesn’t, and if he so much as threatens to leave her unsatisfied, she’s up and out of the room within a minute. Or, one time, up and on top of him, a hand-shaped sting lingering on his face as she rode him until she came.

Her condescending comments (“ _God,_ fuck me like you mean it, before I grab a strap-on and _show_ you how to do it") the loud directions and commands (“Harder”, and “Faster” being her go-to words), and the strings of obscenities she screams as she comes (usually a lot of “Fuck”s) - the dirty talk is half the turn-on with her.

“ _Oh,_ yeah, right there…”

Puck is instantly snapped out of his short reverie about Santana’s bedside manners as Santana practically _moans_ the words.

“Oo, _fuck,_ harder, harder,” she cries into Brittany’s ear.

It seems _he’s_ not the only one that gets to enjoy that side of her. Puck can see Brittany quirk an eyebrow at Santana’s unexpected commands, but she complies without hesitation, smiling and whispering something right back into Santana’s ear. Santana’s nails dig into Brittany’s neck in response, and she cants her hips into Brittany’s hand as the blonde speeds up and her movements get rougher.

This was more than he expected. He thought, maybe some kissing, some groping… But this? He didn’t expect them to start fucking each other senseless into the grass.

 _Here’s to happily surprised,_ he thinks with a grin, and makes the jump. Well, not really a jump: he quickly dangles himself off the side, and drops the last few feet to the ground, to land with a thud a few feet away from the girls.

“Hi there,” he drawls.

The reaction is instantaneous. From Santana at least. Brittany just looks up in surprise and gapes, probably more wondering how he materialized out of thin air than worrying about the fact that he can see her hand down Santana’s skirt.

Santana though – predictably – pretty much freaks. She curses loudly, shoves Brittany off of her, and tries to compose herself. It’s not easy to do: there’s a scandalous amount of skin showing where Brittany’s hand has pushed down her skirt and panties; her bra is no doubt loose because Puck can see a perky nipple through her shirt; her hair is a mess; and she’s still panting like an animal in heat. Except – no, now she’s _seething_.

“What the fuck, Puck?”

Her shrill tone surprises him somewhat, and he cringes.

“Hi?”

“Hi!” Brittany replies obliviously, with a small wave. Puck smirks and nods knowingly at the gleam of wetness on her fingers. Brittany realizes, smiles somewhat abashedly, and almost absently puts them in her mouth to clean them off. Puck’s mouth drops open.

“Holy fuck.”

Puck realizes he’s not the only one shocked at Brittany’s oblivious display of porn-worthy sexiness. Santana’s eyes have bulged, and her hand shoots out to stop Brittany.

“God, don’t do that, Britt.” There’s a desperate edge to her voice that Puck doesn’t recognize. It’s a mix of arousal and… _fear?_

No, that can’t be right.

“ _What_ are you doing here, Puck?” Santana demands, and the unidentified look is gone so quickly Puck is sure he imagined it.

“Thought I’d join the party!” he suggests nonchalantly. Santana glares at him. Brittany frowns and searches the skies beyond the bleachers for something.

“No,” comes the instant reply, and Puck has to admit he’s a little surprised. He’d pictured things going a little differently… To be fair, he only really has porn as a source for how these things go, but still – he’d expected life to imitate art just a little more. In porn, no one ever says no (unless you’re into that sort of thing and he’s definitely not). On top of that, _Santana_ never says no either.

Completely at a loss, all that comes out of his mouth is a stupid, “Um…”

Santana shakes her head with an irritated scoff and opens her mouth to – no doubt – rip him to pieces.

Suddenly - “Did you fly here?”

It’s Brittany, and she’s looking at him for an honest answer.  He stuffs his hands in his pockets and smiles sheepishly. “I was sitting on the top of the bleachers. Heard you guys talking this afternoon, and – since you’re screwing both of us, Santana, I thought we could kill two birds with one stone.”

Brittany’s eyebrow quirk like she’s honestly curious at the prospect of the three of them, and Puck’s hope soars, but Santana glares at her and shakes her head ‘No’. The blonde frowns and starts to open her mouth to object, but Santana cuts her off.

“No, Britt. Puck, you thought wrong. I’m screwing both of you – “ Santana looks quickly at Brittany, and Puck wonders how long they’ve actually been screwing because the way Santana’s eyebrows come together suggests a very un-Santana-like uncertainty about her and Brittany’s relationship, “ – but I don’t mix.”

“Oh.” A beat. “Well… that blows.” He scratches his head uncertainly and glances down at his crotch. “’Cause I’m all riled up.”

Santana tilts her head with familiar sass, gestures at her disheveled appearance, and says pointedly, “Yeah, sucks, doesn’t it?”

An awkward silence falls then. Santana glares at Puck; Puck looks back somewhat abashedly, losing more bravado by the second; and Brittany just looks between them like she’s studying human communication patterns.

Puck clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t want both… I guess you gotta chose?”

“Fuck you, Puck.”

“You can, if you want,” Puck jokes, but it falls flat, and he clears his throat again. Definitely not how he saw this whole thing going. So – both of them together is off the table. But complete blue-balls? He’d never expected that from Santana…

“Alright. I should go… I guess you wanna finish with Brittany… I mean, I’m available – but you want her, I get it.”

He doesn’t know what he’s said, but Santana freezes. She glances between Brittany and him, and Puck can see her mind working at a mile a minute. Her face falls slightly, and the frightened expression he’d seen when Brittany was about to kiss her this afternoon returns – and he’s never seen anything that looks more _wrong_ on her face. What the hell seems to scare her so much?

“No,” she says suddenly, and it’s like it’s a blow to the gut for her to get it out. Then she rises, and she’s who Puck knows again: composed (despite her appearance), strong, commanding. She helps Brittany to her feet, but lets go of her hand as soon as she’s standing.

“Britt, I’ll see you later okay? I’m gonna finish up with Puck.”

“Oh.” Her voice is impassive, waiting.

“I’m sorry…” Santana murmurs, and Puck frowns at the uncharacteristically apologetic look that seeps over her face, before she continues in a stronger voice, “…for not getting you off, I mean.”

“Oh.” A beat. “That’s okay.” Brittany smiles and brushes her hand lightly over Santana’s before dashing over to grab her stuff. “See you later, okay?”

Santana follows her with her eyes until she disappears, a light frown on her face. When she turns back, Puck grins hopefully at her.

The full slap she gives him in return nearly knocks him down. It stings like a bitch, and Puck brings his hands to his face, cradling his cheek and hissing in pain.

“What the hell?” he shouts when he straightens, glaring daggers at Santana, who has her fists clenched by her side and looks about ready to tear him to pieces. He’s seen her like this before, but it was always directed at someone else, and they never made out well after she unleashed her fury on them. He takes a cautionary step back and puts up his hands disarmingly.

“Woah, uhm, calm down.” His voice trembles a little bit, and it seems to soothe her anger somewhat.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” she gets out between clenched teeth, and it’s the lack of flowery venom and witty knock-downs that surprises him as much as what she’s saying. If she’s beyond _that_ , something is seriously bothering her, he knows that much.

“I’m sorry?” It comes out more as a question, and he knows instantly by the way she tenses that he’s said the completely wrong thing. He takes another cautious step back, but drops his hands and just looks at her.

After a moment of working up the courage to, he finally asks subduedly, “Seriously, Santana, did I fuck up?” He pauses when she doesn’t respond, and then pushes on at risk for own life. It can’t _honestly_ be the case, he really can’t see any way that this sex goddess in front of him is, well, exclusive with anyone - but the strange fear, the unexpected anger – something’s gotta give. So he asks: “Are you and Brittany – “

She doesn’t even let him finish the question before she snaps, “No. We’re just fucking.”

There’s a pause, and Puck laughs uncomfortably. “Didn’t know you were into chicks.”

“I’m not,” Santana snaps, and Puck wonders if he’ll ever be able to defuse her fury.

“Just Brittany then?”

She slow-blinks at him, her mouth set in a thin line, and there’s such contempt in her eyes, he cringes. When she speaks, her voice is low and threatening.

“If you tell _anyone_ , I’ll tell the school about all the times your little soldier chose insubordination and ‘at ease’ instead of standing at attention.”

Puck’s eyes bulge. “What?! That was one time and I was drunk off my face!”

“That’s not how I’ll tell it.”

“Alright, alright…” He clears his throat again and reaches for a condom in his pocket. “Well, shall we?”

Santana shakes her head incredulously, like she can’t believe his audacity – and he doesn’t blame her, because somehow he feels like he _has_ fucked up. It’s all bravado – there isn’t a brave bone in his body when she’s like this. He waits, the condom on his hand between them like a peace offering.

Finally she mutters, “Fuck you,” and launches herself at him. He barely catches her as she jumps on him and knocks them both to the ground. Her teeth are on his lip, and she bites – hard. He tastes blood, and despite all Santana’s roughness, _that’s_ never happened before. In a moment of bravery – _oh,_ who does he think he’s kidding, it’s all bravado – he bites back just as hard, and there’s more blood and he doesn’t know if he should be worried or turned on at the aroused groan Santana lets out. She pulls back, rakes her nails over his chest, and begins to strip him.

Clothing is discarded, and although Santana had said that he hadn’t, it’s like he _has_ fucked up, because she’s never abused him this much. She bites and scratches and pushes and curses and hurts him like he’s wrecked something and she wants to wreck him right back.

In the back of his mind, Puck wonders if he has.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hours to write, seconds to comment! Let me know your favorite part/sentence/moment! Constructive criticism is also always welcome.


	5. Artie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the library is no longer safe.

Artie had been pleasantly surprised when the school library had had a very small section of Black Widow and Avengers comic books – one or two even _vintage_. He’s read them all now, though, and spent more time in the barely-used corner of the library than any sane person should. But he likes it. It’s always quiet. No one bothers him, not even the librarian. And he can read his comics in peace.

He’s almost come to consider it ‘his’ corner, just like the small area behind the dumpsters is ‘his and Puck’s corner’. It’s with some surprise, then, that he wheels into his area and hears subdued whispers from behind the vintage stacks.

“… stupid idiot that he is.” Artie recognizes Santana’s voice, tight with irritation.

A chuckle. Brittany.

“It’s okay, I didn’t mind that much. I really wanted to keep going, but he was there too, so, that’s okay.”

Artie raises an eyebrow. He knows what this is about, and he smirks when he realizes that Puck _had_ somehow gotten lucky yesterday. He wonders how in the world he’d pulled it off, because unlike the player-sex shark, Artie had had the tact to realize that there was maybe something more going on yesterday than either of them knew.

“Really?” Santana’s voice is uncertain.

“Yeah, of course,” comes Brittany’s bubbly voice. There’s a pause. Then: “How did you get the bruise, though?”

“Oh.” A beat. “He bit me.”

“Ouch!”

“In his defense, I bit him first,” Santana grumbles. Brittany laughs, and Artie is sure it’s as much as Santana’s no doubt discontented expression as the information she’s giving.

There’s another pause, and then Brittany states, “So you kissed Puck.”

Santana laughs, though Artie hears a hard edge to it. “Well, we did more than kiss, Britt.”

“No, I know. I just mean, you kissed Puck. But you don’t want to kiss me.” It’s a simple statement, said in impassive voice that, to Artie, somehow doesn’t seem to match the loadedness of the observation. Yesterday, he’d seen her almost lean in to kiss Santana, looking vulnerable and somewhat sad. Now, she’s saying Santana doesn’t want to kiss her with no more emotion than commenting on the weather. How can Brittany seem so blasé about such a harsh reality?

He feels his heart speed up as the tension increases with the silence, and he strains his ears to hear Santana’s reply, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Brittany continues in a tone that is more curious than anything: “Why does kissing mean more with me than with Puck?”

Okay, that would _not_ be the conclusion Artie would have drawn. He wonders what’s going on here.

There’s another pause, and Artie is sure Santana is going to argue, but then she replies in a soft voice:

“I – I don’t know.”

Brittany just hums absentmindedly in response, like she’s still processing the information.

“I would much rather have had you there, than Puck,” Santana continues, her voice stronger and more sure of herself. “I faked an orgasm just to get done with it, but by then you already went home.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! You know I would have stayed.”

“No, it’s good you went home… I didn’t want – _don’t_ want, _ever_ – what he was suggesting. But you know him – no subtlety.”

There’s another pause.

“I haven’t made you come yet. “

Artie’s mind freezes on that statement. Again, it’s an observation stated as simply as commenting on the weather, and Artie wonders at how Brittany’s mind works. His heart speeds up again, and he can’t deny he’s getting a little turned on by all the talk of Brittany and Santana screwing and making each other come…

“Wh-what?” Santana’s voice is as shocked as Artie feels.

“No, I was just thinking – we’ve done it twice now – sort of. But we keep getting interrupted. So I haven’t been able to make you come. That sucks.”

Artie hears his heart beat in his ears so loudly he would have missed the light thud of a body against the library stacks if it hadn’t also sent a small cloud of dust off the books. His eyes widen in shock when he hears Santana purr: “Well, here’s you chance.”

He hears Brittany’s chuckle, a shift against the stacks, and a sharp intake of breath, followed by a gasped “Yes,” and takes that as his cue to wheel the hell out of there. He hasn’t actually been able to grab the comic book he wants, but, unlike Puck, he has some tact to know when he’s invading a private moment.

“Yo, Artie!”

_Speak of the devil._

“Puck, what’s up!” he calls as he exits the library. Puck slaps him on the shoulder and gives him a giddy grin (Artie notices the bite Santana had mentioned) before it turns into a confused frown.

“What were you doing in the library?”

“Getting a comic book.”

Puck frowns, “Well, where is it?”

_Umm…_ “Couldn’t reach.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal.

“Dude, that’s not cool. Which is it? I’ll go get it for you,” Puck offers.

Artie’s mind flits back to the girls he’d left behind between the stacks, complaining about Puck, about being interrupted, and currently wrapped up in something he has no right to. The lie comes easily: “It actually didn’t look very good. I don’t want it.”

“Alright,” Puck says, breaks into his grin again, and steers him down the hallway.

“So…” Artie prompts, knowing exactly what Puck is grinning about. 

“So, totally blew Santana’s mind last night,” he states proudly. Artie grins knowingly, but it’s not for the same reason as Puck is grinning.

“Really?” His tone drips with skepticism, but Puck doesn’t catch it.

“Totally. I found them together, totally hot. Didn’t want a threesome, but Santana was game, so… Seriously dude, I made her come in like no time at all.”

Artie breaks out laughing at that. Puck gives him a curious look.

“What?”

For a moment, Artie looks at him and seriously considers bursting his bubble of self-congratulations. But he knows Puck won’t leave it alone, and the girls finally having a moment alone in the library deserve to be, for once, left alone.

So, he answers simply, “Never mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hours to write, seconds to comment! Let me know your favorite part/sentence/moment! Constructive criticism is also always welcome.

**Author's Note:**

> Hours to write, seconds to comment! Let me know your favorite part/sentence/moment! Constructive criticism is also always welcome.


End file.
